June 29th - Barcelona Atlanta @ Inman Park

A few days ago, Metro Atlanta received an official heat advisory from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. I couldn't quite comprehend how the temperature could manage to get any hotter than what it already was. It's been summer since early March. We barely had a winter and there had been absolutely no spring. The trees were utterly confused. Left with no choice but to bloom bigger, stronger, greener. Fortify for the supposed armageddon in December.


Lo and behold the temperature dial read 109 degrees on the car's dash as I motored to last night's happy hour meetup. Shit. Drinking in this heat? Why? When I handed my keys to the valet at Barcelona Atlanta, the dial had inched up to 111 degrees. God help us all.

The bar/restaurant was full of people. Speaking at the top of their lungs because everyone else was speaking at the top of their lungs. There is no such thing as an "indoor voice" at a bar. I ordered a white wine sangria. No way I was gonna suck all the moisture from my face with some dry death concoction tonight. Damned adult acne. I looked around the establishment.  There was the after-work crowd with their pressed button downs and belted slacks. Their sleek, sophisticated dresses. They looked like they had been here for hours.  There was also a random group of women with a very young baby. I couldn't make up any reason in my head to explain why they were here with an infant so I turned away from them before they caught me staring. There was the wait staff playing with their phones, waiting for more people to squeeze themselves into a place which was rapidly becoming the place to be.  Everyone seemed to be drinking mojitos.


This was the second time I'd been been here and I'm sure I would return again at some later date. Whether they eventually offered a bona fide drink special or not. There was just something about the place. It had this understated sex appeal. This casual elegance. And each time I uttered its name, I would let the combo of consonants and vowels  lazily roll off of my tongue. I'm meeting some ladies at Barcelona. We're having cocktails and tapas at Barcelona. Perhaps, we should make reservations at Barcelona. (Note to self: Look up vacation destinations in Spain.)




As soon as my party of professional gals convened, we fell into an easy conversation on careers, parenting, politics and marriage. A few weeks ago, I'd scolded my husband for assuming that all women talk about are relationships. However, as I listened and contributed to the fray I had to admit that he was right. At this age, everything about life is an application of self to whatever particular relationship. In our younger days, we take our encounters with life for granted. As we grow older, we also grow into this state of double consciousness. We live our lives and we watch ourselves live our lives. Sometimes with delight. Sometimes with disgust. Sometimes with wonderment. Always with resolve. We recognize ourselves as others recount their tales. We often have the same reaction in tragedy or in triumph. We laugh. We order another round. We eat our tapas and sop up alioli with bread. We change the subject.



I stole away to the restroom, which I must say is one of the oddest features of Barcelona. Instead of having a men's and women's communal setup with individual stalls, there is one private restroom for a single male and two such restrooms for women. Initially, I thought this to be rather inconvenient for anyone who had a dire toilet-related emergency. However,  as I waited outside of one of the women's rooms for my turn, I couldn't help but imagine coming here one night with my husband and surreptitiously snatching him into this bathroom for an impromptu slap and tickle after trying two or three of those mojitos. As I entered the bathroom, I giggled at the picture on the wall. I think Barcelona winked at me.  


 I returned to the table, laughed as the ladies ogled some strapping  young man walk by outside, paid my check and then ventured back out into the lake of fire temperature to retrieve my car. Feeling sentimental, I held onto to the logo-stamped matches I'd grabbed while exiting. Yeah, I'd definitely go back.